


All this for a glass of wine and a conversation?

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendly Kidnapping, Future Fic, Humor, Lighthearted, Love, M/M, Making Up, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11020014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: Edward doesn’t know why everyone keeps giving him these looks.  Is it so strange that he wants to crash the Penguin’s party?  He’s Edward’s greatest enemy, after all.Or: ten years down the line, literallyeveryoneknows the Riddler is in love with the Penguin… except the two of them.





	All this for a glass of wine and a conversation?

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Всё это — ради бокала вина и приятной беседы?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467476) by [Red_evil_twist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_evil_twist/pseuds/Red_evil_twist)



> A more lighthearted take on future enemies. Took inspiration from the batjokes relationship in The Lego Batman Movie. :)
> 
> Enjoy! <3  
> ~R

“Can you name three consecutive days without using the words Monday, Wednesday, Friday, or Sunday?”

“ _Really_?”

Jim sighs gustily from where he’s handcuffed to the chair. They’re in an abandoned warehouse, not far from the harbor, and Jim screws up his nose at the permeating scent of fish. Edward smirks at him, pleased with himself over the choice of venue.

“Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow?” Jim says finally, tone defeated.

Edward grins. “ _Bin_ go,” he says. “Good work, Jimbo. Now we can get to the _real_ reason you’re here…”

Jim eyes him carefully as he circles around the chair. Edward savors the momentous pause, tapping the fingers of his gloved hand against the pocketwatch in his suit vest. When he reaches the front of the chair again, he whirls on his heel to face Jim abruptly. Jim stares him down, unmoved.

“I have reason to believe you’ll be at a little _event_ thrown by my …” Edward glances down, coquettishly, “ _greatest enemy_. I need to know the time and place.”

Jim frowns, a little nervously, Edward notes. “Ed--”

“Riddler,” Edward corrects eagerly.

Jim rolls his eyes, expressively. “ _Riddler_ ,” he says, in a way that clearly conveys his disdain. “Are you talking about _Batman_? Because as far as I know, he doesn’t throw parties.” Jim is staring at Edward penetratingly, as if searching for some kind of telling reaction.

Edward scoffs. “Batman? No, Commissioner, I said my ‘greatest enemy’. Who’s the one I have consistently tried to kill the most _frequently_ over the course of the past - I don’t know - _decade_?”

Jim’s shoulders slump, in relief or weariness, Edward is unsure. “Oswald? Seriously, Ed? Can’t you just _ask_ him?”

Edward scowls. “No, Jim, I can’t just _ask_ him. We’re enemies, after all.”

Jim mutters something, but since his head is angled down, Edward can’t read his lips. “What was that?” he asks, putting a hand on each of the chair’s armrests and leaning in.

Jim looks up at him, expression exasperated. “Just praying for an end to my suffering,” Jim says, flatly. He closes his eyes briefly and sighs. “Ed, _why_ do you need to know about Oswald’s party?”

“So you _are_ invited,” Edward says. “Perfect! I’ll just tail you. What night is it?”

“I’m not _going_ ,” Jim says. “The Iceberg’s the last place I need to be seen.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Edward hisses. It’s at the Iceberg Lounge. He straightens to his full height, looking down at Jim. “Can I have your invitation?”

Jim smiles. “Well, you’re welcome to search the municipal dump for it. Can I go now?”

Edward scowls. “Drat.”

~

He can’t take quite the same approach with his next target.

It’s a no-brainer that Joker has been invited to Oswald’s party; he’s one of the most powerful figures of Gotham’s underworld, and Oswald has never been one to pass up an opportunity to brush shoulders with the influential. Edward is also reasonably sure that Joker will attend. Oswald throws _fantastic_ parties.

Instead of kidnapping Joker from his bed and carting him off to an abandoned warehouse (as he had done with Jim) Edward shows up at the scene of the Joker’s next crime (a jewelry store that caters to Gotham’s elite) and waits for the villain to appear.

Appear he does.

“Well, well, well, _Riddler_ ,” Joker says, grin etched into his face. “Come to crash the party?”

“ _A_ party,” Edward says, hopping down from the display counter. “Not yours. Just here for a little talk.”

Joker snaps his finger, and his contingent of goons rushes to start collecting the jewelry. “Well now you’ve got me _curious_ ,” Joker says, approaching Edward with a swagger to his step.

“I’ll try not to disappoint,” Edward tells him. “There’s an upcoming event that’ll be taking place at the Iceberg Lounge.”

The Joker grins at him. “Ooo, do you need a giant cake?”

Edward stares at the Joker. “What?”

“You know, one of those giant cakes,” the Joker says, holding his arms out as if to demonstrate the size. “To jump out of,” he prompts, when the Riddler doesn’t respond. “The one I got for Bruce Wayne’s birthday party was...fantastic. Too bad the butler destroyed it,” he continues, as if to himself.

“No-- why would I want a _cake_?” Edward asks, dumbfounded. “Who’s jumping-- _what_?”

“Oh,” the Joker says, face falling.

They stare at each other for a moment, at a bizarre impasse. “I just want to know what day it is,” Edward says finally.

The Joker frowns. “You don’t know? It’s Friday.”

“ _Friday_?! But that’s just two days away! I need to speed up my timetable,” Edward mutters to himself, rushing out of the jewelry store. He’s so preoccupied that he doesn’t hear the Joker laughing as he leaves.

~

Lucius Fox is even easier to kidnap than Jimbo, if that’s possible. Edward hides in his backseat and chloroforms him as he’s leaving work the next evening. He doesn’t even bother bringing him to an abandoned warehouse or anything; he just drives him home and waits for him to regain consciousness.

Foxy groans as he wakes, slumped over on his threadbare couch. Edward grins at him, cheerily.

“Wakey-wakey, Foxy,” Edward sing-songs.

“Did you--” Fox begins, bemused. “Did you kidnap me and drive me to my own home?”

“Well where else should I question you?” Edward asks. “I could knock you out again and bring you to a warehouse?”

“Please don’t,” Fox says, “I think I have an allergy to chloroform.”

“You’ll be fine. I had a couple of questions about a particular event taking place this Friday at the Iceberg Lounge.”

“The Penguin’s party?” Fox asks. “What do you want to know?”

“I need to know what _time_ it’s at,” Edward says. “I haven’t been able to get my hands on an invitation.”

“ _Why_ do you want to know?”

“Aren’t you going to answer my question?”

“I don’t actually know,” Fox admits. “I wasn’t invited.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Edward mutters aggressively to himself. “Well, didn’t Jimbo share the details?” he demands.

“I don’t think he even read the full invitation.”

Edward clenches his hands into fists. A _waste of time_. And with him running so short on it, too. Just one day until Friday.

“I think you need to ask yourself why you’re doing this,” Fox interjects. “You’re putting a lot of effort into finding out when his party is, yet you won’t go to him directly.”

“Of _course_ not,” Edward says, exasperated. “We’re _enemies_ , Foxy, I can’t just call him up and ask him when his party is.”

“Then why is it so important to you?” Fox asks, voice sympathetic and understanding.

Edward narrows his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to know,” he says, snottily. “Do you know anything about it at all, Foxy?”

Fox sighs and leans back on the couch. “I don’t know anything about it. Jim hardly mentioned it, and no one else from the station was invited.”

Edward sighs harshly, irritatedly. “I wish you would’ve told me that _sooner_.”

“Just keep in mind what I said, will you, Ed? And please don’t--”

“Too late!” Edward chirps, holding the chloroform-soaked rag to Fox’s face again. “Can’t hear you.”

Fox mutters something into the rag, but he’s unconscious before Edward can interpret it.

~

“What are you up to, Riddleguy?”

Edward whirls around on his heel. Who managed to break into his HQ without him noticing? He has about four different layers of security on this one; he isn’t intending to get caught for quite some time--

Oh. It’s Catwoman. Of course.

“I could ask the same of you,” Edward responds, just a little belatedly.

She approaches him slowly, circuitously, fiddling with this or that. She picks up a silver hand mirror, a family heirloom he’d stolen from one of the descendants of a Court of Owls member. She holds it up to her face and peers into it.

“Yeah, but I asked you first,” she says, voice deceptively apathetic.

“You know what I’m doing, or why else would you be here?” he counters, snatching up his question mark staff and twirling it in his hand like a baton.

“Hey,” she says, turning to point at him with the mirror. “I’m not Ozzie’s _lackey_ , or anything. I go where I want to go.”

The Riddler holds his hands up, innocently, the staff balanced lengthwise on the palm of his right hand. “I never said you were.”

“You _implied_ it,” she says huffily. “Look, what are you sniffing around for, anyway?”

“You already know,” he insists, eyes narrowed.

They stare into each other’s eyes for a heartbeat. Catwoman’s eyes narrow, consideringly.

“Does he know yet?” Edward blurts. He hisses in annoyance at himself; but, he tells himself, she’s far more likely to tell him the truth than anyone closer to Oswald.

She just smirks at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She tucks the mirror into a pocket on her suit. “I’m taking this,” she tells him, and he dips his head in acquiescence; he wasn’t fond of it anyway.

Catwoman turns on her heel and walks back toward the south-facing window, and Edward curses his lack of leverage. Surely _she_ knows the event’s schedule, and he-- “Doors open at six,” she calls over her shoulder. “But the party won’t really be starting until eight.”

Edward stares, suspicious. “Why are you helping me?”

“Honestly?” she turns around to look at him, still smirking. “You’ve got the _stupidest_ kicked puppy face and I’m getting sick of looking at it. Just tell him how you feel, already.”

“What?” Edward asks breathlessly, and his staff falls off of his hand and clatters into a nearby table, knocking a precarious pile of stolen goods to the floor. By the time he looks back up, she’s gone, as ephemeral as the Bat.

~

Wayne Manor is austere and forbidding in the dark, but Edward doesn’t let that stop him. He ensconces himself in the study, waiting for the master of the house to make his eventual midnight appearance.

Bruce Wayne shows up with a tumbler of whisky and an exhausted slump to his shoulders.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Hi yourself.” Wayne turns to face the Riddler, who’s lounging by the study window. The man looks surprisingly unphased by Edward’s appearance; not even a little bit scared. “I’m not exactly a ‘kid’, though. Riddler.”

Edward clicks his tongue. “You are to me. I remember when you were _this_ tall,” he says, holding his hand at about waist height.

Wayne raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe I exaggerate,” the Riddler acquiesces. “Do you know why I’m here, Brucie-boy?”

“I can’t possibly imagine,” Wayne says, slowly setting his tumbler of whiskey down on the desk top. He’s tense, eyes not leaving the Riddler. “Care to share?”

“ _You’re_ one of Gotham’s elite,” Edward says. “You get invited to all the best parties, don’t you?”

“Are you--” Wayne stares at him, then breaks into laughter, dropping his hand onto the surface of his desk. “You’re--” he forces out between laughs, before giving up on speech and dropping his head, shoulders shaking.

“Master Bruce?” comes an accented voice from the hallway. The Riddler tenses, drawing himself back toward the window. He knows from experience that the butler is a formidable opponent.

The man, Alfred, appears at the doorway, a flashlight held loosely in his grip. “Do you know why the power’s gone-- ah,” he says, eyes finally landing on Edward. “I see. Did you cut the power, perhaps, Mr. Riddler?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Edward says quickly.

“ _Alfred_ ,” Wayne says. “He wants to know about Mr. Cobblepot’s party this Friday.”

The butler sighs gustily. “Well in that case, Master Bruce, you’d better put him out of his bloody misery, hadn't you?”

Wayne straightens, brushing one hand absently through his hair. “What did you want to know?”

Edward shifts on his feet, biting his lip. “Do you still have your invitation?”

“Alfred?” Wayne asks.

“Yes, I have a copy.”

Edward fights back the grin threatening to break out. Just in time: tomorrow will be Friday. “May I see it?”

“I’ll do you one better,” Alfred says. “You go and restore the power, Mr. Riddler, and I’ll make you a copy of your own.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Edward says. “I’ll be right back.”

~

Poison Ivy shows up as he’s walking home.

She fades in from the city streets, footsteps quiet and even. “Hi, Riddler,” she greets him, voice smooth and pitched low.

“Hello, Poison Ivy,” Edward says, voice polite. He and Ivy get along well enough so long as he’s not actively fighting Oswald.

“You’re doing an awful lot of kidnapping, recently,” she observes, mindlessly fiddling with the sealed vial on her necklace. Edward eyes it carefully; they may be on good(ish) terms, but you can never be too careful around her. He’s really got to develop an immunity to her potions and poisons.

“So good of you to notice,” Edward says finally.

They walk in silence for some few blocks, Ivy speedwalking to keep up with Edward’s long-legged stride. Somehow, though, she manages to make it look nonchalant. He determines to wait her out, hoping that whatever she has to say won’t be too disruptive.

When they reach his HQ, she stops walking and turns toward him, her eyes nearly glowing in the pre-dawn darkness. “Edward,” she says, her voice suddenly deep and serious.

He looks over at her, solemnly.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

And that’s all; she turns and disappears into the night, leaving Edward with his heart playing a frantic staccato beat in his chest.

~

Midnight strikes; Friday passes over into Saturday. Oswald sends the last of his guests on their way and returns to the bar, leaning against the counter wearily. He sighs, gently, exhaustion lacing the gust of air.

“Hello, Oswald.”

Oswald straightens, abruptly, as the Riddler appears by his shoulder, holding an expensive bottle of red wine and wearing a nervous expression.

“Edward,” Oswald greets, voice mystified.

Edward gestures at the bar stool nearest Oswald. “Have a seat.”

Oswald frowns, a little confusedly, but complies, sliding onto the barstool. He reaches over the counter to grab two glasses and a bottle opener. “Let me pour,” Edward offers, and Oswald relinquishes them over, sitting back in his chair.

Edward can feel Oswald’s eyes on him as he leans over to pour a measure of wine into each glass. His gaze seems fiery, burning on Edward’s skin. He forces his breath to stay steady, ignoring the flush he can feel on his cheeks and ears.

He hands Oswald his glass and sits down next to him, eying him over the rim of the glass.

Oswald takes a careful sip and sets the wine down on the counter.

“Do you like it?” Edward asks, heart in his throat.

“It’s excellent,” Oswald says. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. “But Ed, I don’t understand. All this for a glass of wine and a conversation?”

Edward swallows. “All what?”

Oswald snorts and picks up the glass of wine again, taking a larger sip. “Do you know how many interesting guests I’ve had stop by this week? Jim was the first.”

“Oh,” Edward says, softly.

“Then Joker came by to ask what kind of _cake_ I was having,” Oswald continues, brow drawn. “I’m not sure I want to know where _that_ came from,” he adds in an aside. “Then Jim, again, on behalf of Lucius Fox - you’ve got to stop kidnapping that poor man, he doesn’t process chloroform very well - then Cat showed up and dropped some pretty _obvious_ hints, though she didn’t say anything outright. Then, of all people, I had _Alfred Pennyworth_ call on behalf of Bruce Wayne - Wayne Manor, Ed, _really_? - telling me that you had a copy of the invitation.”

“Then Poison Ivy, yes, yes, I understand,” Edward says tartly. “Everyone we know are incorrigible gossips.”

“Ivy?” Oswald asks, too quickly and too intently.

Edward grimaces. “Ah, yes. We spoke last night.”

“What did she say?” Oswald demands urgently.

“You mean she didn’t - of course.” Edward sighs. “She clarified some things for me,” he says reluctantly.

“What. Things.” Oswald says dangerously, leaning in toward Ed. Edward eyes his white-knuckled hand gripping his wine glass.

“Oswald,” Edward says slowly. “I’m not here to fight you.”

Oswald visibly relaxes, leaning back again. He takes a deliberately nonchalant sip of his wine, but his eyes are still blazing intently.

“She … drew my attention to my motivations. For my behavior.”

“For _your_ behavior,” Oswald repeats.

“Yes,” Edward confirms.

The last lines of tension disappear from Oswald’s face. “In that case,” he raises his glass, “to Ivy.”

Edward drinks, a little mulishly.

“Back to the topic at hand,” Oswald says.

Grimacing a little at himself, Edward fishes in his pocket. He sets the giftbox on the counter between them, unceremoniously, avoiding eye contact with Oswald.

“What’s this?” Oswald asks, voice unreadable.

“Happy birthday, Oswald.”

For several long heartbeats, there’s no verbal response. Edward finally looks up to see Oswald staring, mouth open, at the gift.

“H--” Oswald swallows visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing. “How did you know?” His voice is a near-whisper, eyes shining with tears.

“It - I - does it matter?” Edward forces out, finally.

“No,” Oswald agrees. Slowly, he reaches out to pick the gift from off the table. He holds it in one palm, staring at it wondrously. “Should I open it?”

“I--” Edward suddenly feels self-conscious. “It’s not much--”

“I don’t care,” Oswald says, a little fiercely. His eyes are still shining, and he looks like he’s fighting off tears. Edward blushes a little at the fierceness of his emotion, fidgeting with his wineglass.

Oswald tears off the paper, uncaringly, and leaves it on the counter. Inside is a little box, and inside that--

Edward hides his nervousness by drinking a sip of wine.

Oswald gasps, brokenly, lifting his hand to cover his mouth. He reaches into the box with his other hand, pulling out the delicate, time-worn little origami penguin. It’s held up decently well over the years; the wrapping paper it was made from was very high quality.

“How did you find it?” Oswald asks, voice shaking.

“I always kept it,” Edward says, face tilted down. “I found it in the manor.”

Oswald holds the little penguin in careworn hands. A life of crime has taken its toll on both of them; Oswald’s hands move stiffly and his knuckles are swollen, a sign of arthritis, but in this moment Edward feels as if he’s the young forensic tech once again, eager to impress and desperate to prove his worth.

“Thank you,” Oswald says quietly.

Without really being aware of it, Edward reaches out to capture Oswald’s hand in his own.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and then the words spill out, one after the other: “All this time I’ve been telling myself that the wound is still fresh, but the reason my heart aches when I see you is that I _miss_ you; I always have, and I always will. You’re the only one who’s ever understood me and accepted me, Oswald, and you will always be the man who showed me what I could become.”

The tears in Oswald’s eyes have spilled over, and he turns his hand in Edward’s to cling to him just as desperately.

“Thank you, Edward,” Oswald says, voice throaty with emotion. “You’ve made this day truly wonderful. I didn’t expect-- I didn’t think to hope--”

“Oswald,” Edward interrupts, and Oswald falls silent, meeting Edward’s eyes.

And, heart fluttering, Edward tugs Oswald toward him, wrapping his free arm around Oswald’s waist and pressing their lips together.

It’s everything, and nothing; Oswald is frozen against him for half a heartbeat, but before Edward can panic he throws his arm around Edward’s shoulders and pulls them together, mouth eager and warm. Wetness graces Edward’s cheek, and he’s not sure if it’s Oswald’s tears or his own; but it doesn’t matter, not one bit.

Edward pulls Oswald, closer, tugging him off the bar stool and onto Edward’s lap, and he comes willingly, burying his fingers into Edward’s hair. His kiss is fervent, heart-stopping, breathtaking - his tongue pleads entrance to Edward’s mouth and he grants it, instantly, savoring the spicy warm taste of rich red wine overwhelming his senses. Oswald’s nose bumps his glasses, and Edward yanks them off impatiently, abandoning them on the bar counter and wrapping both arms around Oswald’s waist.

He begins to stand, dragging Oswald with him, but Oswald pulls back from the kiss just slightly, parting their lips. Edward tries to chase him, but Oswald tugs on his hair and Edward is immediately distracted, a whine escaping his lips.

“One moment,” Oswald insists, out-of-breath. “I need to put this somewhere safe.”

Edward directs his glance down to the little origami penguin, still clutched carefully in Oswald’s hand. “Of course,” he says, belatedly.

Oswald smiles, fondly. “Ed, you’ll have to let me go for a moment.”

“Absolutely not,” Edward insists. “Just tell me where you want to go.”

Oswald laughs, wrapping both his arms around Ed’s neck. “If you’re sure you can lift me? I rather think I ought to keep this lovely gift safe upstairs. In my bedroom.”

Edward drops a kiss onto the tip of Oswald’s nose, unable to suppress the grin on his face. “I think that’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.”


End file.
